Disclaimer: Many of the cabinets in the Diffys' kitchen didn't open, their backyard was built on a sound stage, even the grass was fake. Oh, and I don't own Phil of the Future, but that's not what this story is about. It's about ...
Making Love
I asked him THE Question, and, in response, he sighed.
I barely had thought of speaking it aloud, still a bit foggy after my nap. Not my fault.
Phil reached over to turn off the radio, unintentionally swaying the hammock with his action. I watched the leaves and clouds swing about in the sky and smiled. Perfect afternoon.
No parents, Curtis was busy being Neolithic, and Pim ... her backpack was crammed full of stuff - of what? Nobody asked. Full pack was a good sign, a very good sign, that she'd be out the rest of the day, taking advantage of her parents' latest excursion on the highways and byways of the surrounding countryside. In short, the house and the day belonged just to me and my Phil.
We could have spent it inside, watching movies, skyaking to Timbuktu, or ... we ended up in the backyard. A little clean up in the backyard - without Pim's maneuvering this time - was finished in record time, then we just sat down for a break. The hammock was ... inviting. Sitting and swaying turned into head-to-toe reclining, which was fine, but then this awful song came on the radio I had on for background noise. Simply awful. Phil, predictably, offered to change it, but I couldn't wait. Phil screamed my name as I almost overturned us both by crawling across the stretched fabric to reach the radio by him. He just doesn't get it.
Or maybe he does, because he shifted over, not to keep from falling, but to make room for me ... next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, both looking skyward, just small talk accompanied by meaningless music on the radio, but I was hearing different music, better music. He put his arm around me and I motioned myself over to find a shoulder-pillow. Before we knew it, the hammock stopped moving.
Oh, I know what you're probably thinking: two teenagers with no adult or little sister supervision, house to themselves, raging hormones? Check. You're following fine. It just that ... well, maybe you had to be there. I mean, I was in my happy place. You know? That place where you go to in your head when life gets too hard, the world gets too mean; your happy place, where you can breathe again, no pressures, and everything makes sense. That place you'd rather be than anywhere else. Backyard, hammock, using my boyfriend as a pillow, his rubbing my spine and kissing me anyway, despite repeated suffering from the taste of mouthfuls of blonde curls ... I've changed my mind. Heaven isn't a mall. It's the both of us together forever. I'd even give up the clouds and the radio.
First time this happened, falling asleep next to Phil, reflexively, I did a check. I trust Phil, but he is a boy, you know. My fingers ran along my waistband, buttons, and the rest. Funny, now that I think of it, but I think that's when I first really felt deep inside that Phil loved me. Not "me," the body, the smile, and his best friend, but me, the "me" he respected. No, more than that. The "me" that he loved, cared for and wished the best for. You know that warmth you feel when hugging someone? I get that feeling from Phil without even occupying the same room. It's a warmth that glows deep inside me when his voice comes over the phone, when he says my name, or when I even see his. I can see it in his eyes, also. He feels this warmth for me, too.
It was fine with me, his turning the radio off. We didn't need it. I was so relaxed that I fell asleep on my favorite pillow. I think Phil's leg fell asleep with my cuddling. Poor baby, he probably wouldn't have moved, less he wake me, or maybe he fell asleep, too. I wanted to ask him if he was okay. I wanted to ask him if I snored; he'd tell me, then call it cute, even if it was the most disgusting sound possible to emit. I wanted to ask him if he knew I loved him, but all that came out was:
Without looking his way, I asked him, "Happy?"
"(sigh) Oh, Yeah."